The Power of Falling Apart

It started with my heart racing—no, sprinting. My breath turned shallow, my hands shook, my thoughts blurred. I heard words but couldn’t understand them. My mouth moved, but nothing came out. I was trapped inside my own body, unable to make sense of what was happening. No matter how much I told myself to calm down, I couldn’t. It was spectacularly uncomfortable.

I didn’t realize it at that moment, but this was my first panic attack.

It happened a couple of months after my diagnosis, just weeks after my first surgery. I had no history of anxiety, no buildup, no warning signs. One moment, I was fine. The next, my body had flipped a switch – deciding I was in danger and launching a full-blown alarm. And once it started, there was no stopping it.

Panic attacks seem like something you should be able to control. Take a deep breath, Sara. Calm your hands. Think through this. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t make it stop. It was a total fight-or-flight response. And I flew.

I didn’t admit that I was having a panic attack.

I didn’t ask for help.

I didn’t talk to anyone about it, for months.

I just ran.

I’ve done a lot of running lately—just not the kind that builds endurance. Not the kind that makes you feel strong, like those 5 AM runs I’ve only once attempted with Tarik. This kind of running is different. It’s running from the weight of this diagnosis, from the moments that feel too heavy to say out loud.

But the thing about running is, eventually, you have to stop. You get tired. You run out of road. And when I did, I realized that writing gave me a different kind of escape. Not the kind where you disappear – though I often felt as though I wanted to – but the kind where you show up. A space where I could feel everything I’d been trying so hard to avoid. Where I could take my time – to process, to be angry, to cry, to scream.

Panic attacks steal time. Writing gives it back.

Since that first one, I’ve had quite a few more. And I never see them coming. They don’t approach gently; they jump out of the dark like some anxiety ninja, ready to unravel everything you thought you had under control. They trick you into thinking you’re weak – that not only can you not handle your life, but you also can’t even handle your own body. They make you feel powerless.

At least, that’s how I’ve felt.  

But I’ve started talking about them. Slowly. Quietly. Honestly. And every time I do, something shifts. There’s a little more light and a little more oxygen in the room. A little less shame.

When my sister and I found out we had Li-Fraumeni Syndrome, we joked about being mutants. Cool, cool. But when does the damn superpower show itself? I mean, if you’re going to end up with a genetic quirk this rare and life-altering, you’d hope for at least laser vision or teleportation as a consolation prize.

Instead, I got panic attacks. And a lifetime of MRIs. But I also got something else.

Maybe I did inherit this genetic cancer predisposition from my dad – but I also got his relentless optimism and psychological strength. And from my mom? Her deep, unwavering capacity to feel. Her resilience. Her quiet courage.

For a long time, I thought that feeling everything so intensely made things harder. And it does – but it also means I experience the full spectrum. The grief, yes, but also the love. The fear, but also the joy. And that, I’ve learned, is its own kind of superpower. That’s what I tell the girls, too. That our strength doesn’t come from avoiding the hard stuff – it comes from walking through it. Feeling it. Surviving it. And talking about it when we’re ready.

So my mutation didn’t come with flashy powers, okay. But survival? That’s something extraordinary. And the more I speak about it, the stronger it feels.

There’s something transformative in the unraveling itself, maybe even necessary. So here’s what I’ll leave you with: Be open to falling apart because it might be just the thing that ends up holding you together.